


the Circle Game

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abortion, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Adopted Children, Adoption, Discussion of Abortion, District 12, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Families of Choice, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied Sexual Content, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parents Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay, Teenagers, Women's Rights, no-epilogue mockingjay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: After the horrors they've seen both before and after the war, neither Katniss Everdeen or Peeta Mellark are especially keen to bring another life into the world.After the horrors they've seen both before and after the war, neither Katniss Everdeen or Peeta Mellark are capable of standing idly by while a child suffers.(*gestures at Katniss and Peeta* you look at them and tell me they didn't adopt.)(Post-Mockingjay, no epilogue, definitely no "but Peeta wanted them so badly.")





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Little Green](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095935) by [jeeno2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/pseuds/jeeno2). 



> I tossed out the whole epilogue. This is my alt take. That means "but Peeta wanted them so badly" was never written, and thank god for that. 
> 
> If you haven't read "Little Green" by Jeeno, please, please do. This fic covers a different headcanon than in Little Green, but I also named it with a Joni Mitchell title as a show of my respect in this little fic of mine to the only one I count when I think about post mockingjay fics.

Peeta doesn’t hear her approach. She even tries to be louder as she approaches, even though she tries to be louder as she draws closer to the drafting table he’s been hunched over for all of today and most of yesterday. Still, he doesn’t notice her coming at all until she sets the tray with their plates down beside him and says, 

“Hey, Peeta. Dinner.” 

He startles at the sound of her voice anyway. She feels so guilty for it, even though he gives her one of those faraway smiles he gets when she pulls him back to earth after he’s spent a particularly long time at work on something. Still, his face betrays nothing even remotely resembling frustration. 

“Wait, already?” he asks. 

She rolls her eyes, though only because she’s so endeared by him. She’s used to it, by now. Peeta tends to work for hours on end without even pausing to eat or -- even breathe, at some points. It’s not entirely surprising that he could go through an entire day without noticing that he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink. 

“Like an hour ago,” she says. “I called you. You were busy.” 

“It’s Sunday. I was supposed to make the rolls.” 

She nudges the plate closer to him, complete with a dense roll on the side of the plate. “Figured a Seam roll would have to do,” she says. He bites his lower lip. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. “A seam roll sounds perfect.” 

She’s only learned recently that Peeta has no real passion for baking. Peeta assued her that he’s only realized it recently, himself. He enjoys feeding people he loves, and he feels a moral obligation to give food to people who are hungry, but there’s so much wrapped up around baking for him that he much prefers to be on the cooking side of their meal prep. Still, sometimes he volunteers out of habit. 

“You should just teach me how to make the bread with the egg wash,” she says, her plan forming as she pushes some of his hair back, away from his eyes. “You can take over some of my skinning and I’ll do the Monday bakeoff.” 

His eyes go all faraway again, but she can tell it’s not because he’s confused. He just looks at her like that, sometimes. Like she’s made him melt completely by saying something totally rational. “You’d do that for me?” he asks, taking one of her hands and twining their fingers together. 

She scoffs, though the affection is welcome after him being so busy for such a long time. “Easy, Mellark,” she kids. “You still have to--” 

“I’ll skin everything you bring home,” he assures her, bringing their joined hands up to his mouth and kissing her knuckles. “I’ll even bake every other week. But you’d do that?” 

“ ‘course I would,” she says, trying to pretend like she’s not still so easily distracted by something like him kissing her. “Just has to be a really good lesson.” 

He grins, but then his smile slips into something just a little bit less playful. “Hey,” he says. “Marry me?” 

She laughs. They’ve discussed this before -- and she’s already agreed. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Are you going to eat, or what? Dinner’s going to get cold.” 

“I’m serious,” he says. “Marry me tomorrow?” 

She blinks. 

“We’ll bake the bread together. Tonight,” he continues. “And then tomorrow morning, I’ll build us a fire, and--” 

She cuts him off by kissing him. 

“Is that a yes?” he jokes, resting his forehead against hers. “Because--” 

“Yes,” she says. He tries asking her what bread to use, but then she’s kissing him again, and they end up not even thinking about their dinner until they’re both on the floor, sweaty and happy and tangled up in each other. 

 

“I’m still not going to let you knock me up, you know,” she says, after, half-teasing. 

He snorts. “Good,” he says. “Me, neither.” 

She rests her head on his shoulder. She’s just closed her eyes when he says, 

“I mean -- can you even imagine me with a kid?” 

Yes, she thinks emphatically. Yes, she can imagine him with a kid. She’s been able to since before either of them were going to live this long. But she’s selfish, and she much prefers to imagine him like this, with her.


	2. all i want

She’s not as quiet as she used to be. Maybe the years of relative safety, or the extra few pounds she’s put on. She knows that Peeta, senses permanently heightened -- like hers -- from the arena hears her coming. His guest does not. 

 

“Come on, Peeta. You know what a good father you’d be,” Delly Cartwright is wheedling. “You’re sure you don’t want even just one?” 

 

It’s quiet for a beat. Katniss stays frozen at the side door, wondering if maybe she doesn’t know what her husband is going to say, even after all these years. 

“You know what my family is -- was like,” Peeta says. He’s said this so many times before, but he still sounds so resigned about it. “You really can’t expect me to be so keen to put another Mellark on the planet.” 

Delly sputters. “But I -- you -- you know you wouldn’t be anything like your parents. You do know that, right?” she asks. “If anyone deserves to be a father, it’s you.” 

 

She continues to babble, but Katniss tunes it out for a moment from her spot in the kitchen, grateful to be hidden enough that she can roll her eyes freely. She pulls the door shut quietly behind her and starts to shuck off her hunting clothes. Peeta is used to the sight of the blood from her game by now, but Delly has always been more delicate. 

Especially now. She’s already pregnant with her third child, and since Katniss and Peeta happily babysit for the older two whenever they’re asked, she can’t seem to fathom why they might not want to have children of their own, and very soon. 

“You always talked about being a father!” Delly pulls out at last, and Katniss freezes. “You remember that, don’t you? I’d hate for you miss out just because--” 

 

“I’m gonna see if Katniss needs help with her game bag,” he announces stiffly, and Delly says his name in a weak attempt to get him to turn around. He enters the kitchen just as Katniss is fumbling with her sweater and crosses the kitchen wordlessly to help ease it over her stretched arms. 

 

She flashes him a grateful smile and leans her head against his broad, familiar chest in what would be a hug if she weren’t still sweaty and dirty from her hunt. Peeta doesn’t mind, though, and pulls her against him gently. 

 

“Is Delly trying to round out the neighborhood play group again?” Katniss asks lowly, and Peeta laughs. 

“I’m starting to think she suspects we’d have a better chance at having a girl,” he jokes, tilting his head back towards where his friend sits in the living room still. Delly has been far from subtle about how badly she’d like her next child to help balance out the majority of boys in her household. “Maybe it’s all a ploy so she can do a baby swap when we aren’t looking.” 

Katniss snorts. It’s mean to tease Delly, probably, but it’s really the only way they’ve managed to get through the constant questioning about when they plan to reproduce. When their matching birth control implants shipped from the capitol a few years ago, news stories about it ran for weeks. 

“You talked about being a father?” Katniss asks softly. 

“All the time,” says Delly, who has leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m going to head out,” she says. “I’m sorry to upset you, Peeta. Really.” 

It’s quiet for a beat once they’re alone. 

“Only because it was the only option,” he admits. “You know. Be married off to some merchant girl. Have a child so there’s someone to pass the shop down to. Treat her better than my parents treated me.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. 

“That’s all,” he says. “It was just me pretending like I had options.” 

“You do now,” she says. 

He kisses her. “Is one of those options to get my wife in a hot bath?” 

She laughs. “Let me shower off first, at least.” 

“I think we can allow that,” he teases. 

 

. . . 

 

Even all these years since Peeta has baked with any real regularity. Still, though, between years of working at his family’s bakery and all the mornings he’s found himself awake once Katniss left for the woods, he sometimes finds himself awake before the sun. This is one of those mornings. Katniss is asleep beside him, still, curled tightly off onto her side. At some point in the night, she must have stolen the entire top sheet, but it isn’t doing nearly enough to keep her warm. 

 

Peeta carefully spreads the quilt out to cover her better. It’s the most recent one she’s finished -- made with the machine he bought her for her birthday, after she developed the beginnings of a stress injury from sewing them all by hand. Katniss even used old sets of sheets and tablecloths to weigh this comforter down. She used some of their more threadbare old clothes to make panels for the front of it, including the shirt he wore the day of their toasting, folded like a heart in the center of it, the flannel she wore while they baked the bread for it surrounds it. 

 

The blanket is heavy enough that she relaxes under the weight of it immediately. She sighs happily, and he’s suddenly overcome with a great wave of affection for his wife. Even just a few hours ago, she was sleeping so fitfully. Every moment of peace like this has been so hard won for the both of them -- fought for with every quilt Katniss has sewn to busy her hands, with every portrait Peeta has painted, with every meal they’ve cooked together -- that it isn’t lost on him just how lucky he is to get to see her like this. 

 

It’s this great wave of affection for her that forces him out of the bed, afraid he might drown in it otherwise. When this happens, he ends up with an urge powerful enough that he has to do something with his hands, and he doesn’t intend on waking her up. He moves mechanically, laying out the ingredients to start baking cinnamon rolls -- a favorite of Katniss’s, and one of very few things he still enjoys baking. He’s not sure the recipe he uses even remotely resembles the one his father used to make. He couldn’t remember how the Mellarks made them the first time Katniss requested and used a recipe from a fancy m Capitol cookbook. Of course, he’s tweaked it so many times since then that it’s unrecognizable. 

 

These pastries, in particular, have been present in both high and low moments in their shared lives -- this time, during a stretch of hard nights that made for long, impossible days for his wife. This time, because the exact degree to which he loves her is almost excruciating. It’s not the sort of thing he could explain to her if he tried, but he has a suspicion that on some level, she understands it anyway. 

 

He loses himself in the work and returns to find Katniss leaned against the far wall in the kitchen, bleary-eyed and dressed in only one of his sleeping shirts. “What’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft, obviously still tired. 

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Did I wake you up?” 

 

Her lips pull off to the side, somehow both down and up at the same time. “I was going to get up anyway,” she says, clearly lying. 

Peeta is unconvinced. “Go back to sleep,” he says. “Everything’s fine, I just need another two hours before breakfast is ready.” 

 

Her expression shifts into a real frown. “Why were you baking so early?” she asks, stepping closer to get a good look at the ingredients. “Cinnamon rolls?” she asks. “Peeta, are you okay?” she asks. “Did something--?” 

“No,” he assures her. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise.” 

She sighs, maybe weighing whether or not she should believe him. “Peeta,” she tries, frowning. He closes the space between them to kiss her forehead. She blinks up at him. “It’s four,” she tries. 

“They’re because I love you,” Peeta admits at last. 

 

She snorts. And then, half a moment later, seems to realize that he’s serious. She arches up to kiss him, sweet and fast. “You’re ridiculous,” she reminds him, though she’s clearly endeared. She lets her weight settle back onto the balls of her feet and reaches her hands up to tangle through his hair. 

 

“Can I help?” she asks. 

He shakes his head, but finds himself smiling a little just at her proximity. “You can keep me company, if you want,” he offers. 

“Gonna brush my teeth,” she informs him. As she passes, she rests her hand on his ass, just briefly, and a surprised laugh rips from his chest. 

 

She sits on the counter while he bakes, occasionally blocking his path with an outstretched leg or tugging on his shirt to get him close enough to kiss. 

 

“All this just for making cinnamon rolls?” he teases one time, but she just turns her head and kisses his throat instead, and he sighs. There’s that urge to use his hands, again. “Got some time to kill,” he comments weakly. 

Her head tilts to the side, and he can tell just based on the way her smile shifts that she knows what’s he’s thinking of -- what he’s offering. 

 

“Do you?” she asks. 

His fingertips trail up her exposed thigh and she shudders. 

“What do you -- think you’re gonna do with all that time?” she asks, still trying hard to sound composed. 

“Got some ideas,” he admits, using the back of his nails on the inside of her thigh. She’s so wound up already, he can tell. Maybe she woke up that way. “May I--?” 

“Yeah. Yes,” she whispers. He hasn’t even started moving yet when she grabs his shoulder and says, “Wait. Your leg.” 

He laughs. “I think I can handle it.” 

She moves one ankle to cross over the other, and stupidly, he regrets mentioning his pain last night. 

 

“I won’t take long,” he says, thinking that the difference between being cocky and assured is having proof. And he does. More than a decade worth of it, easy. “Promise.” 

Maybe it’s the way her laugh softens it when she says, “Are you going to keep me waiting, or can you get a chair?” but he doesn’t bother protesting again, just scrambles to follow the direction. 

 

The dough has had more than enough time to double in size by the time Katniss peels herself off of him. They’ve moved off his chair and onto the floor. Katniss pulled the towel off of the handle for the stove door and shoved it under his head, as if that would make much of a difference. He took the majority of the cold from the marble floor, but felt nothing but warmth, thanks to his wife. 

 

. . . 

 

The rain is pounding. Peeta gets home from town with his jacket pulled up over his head in a weak attempt to shelter from the sheets of rain. It’s too warm for snow, but just barely. Though you wouldn’t guess it from the way his face has gone all red and chapped, thanks to the wind. Katniss was supposed to be out in the woods all day, but he’s hoping she doubled back once it was clear it was going to rain. 

 

As soon as he opens the door, he’s hit with the scent of soup, and it threatens to make his knees go out. He had been fantasizing about having soup waiting when Katniss got back, and she clearly had the same idea, down to the leftovers from the turkey they ate the night before. His mouth waters. 

He tosses a comment in ahead of him about how hard it’s coming down and then pulls up short once the kitchen door is shut behind him. Katniss is already at the table, a bowl in front of her and -- most importantly -- a figure across from her, slight to begin with, but curling into herself with a tension in her shoulders that makes Peeta ache to remember. 

 

“We have company?” he asks dumbly, and regrets it when the figure cowers. He can’t see her face, but he knows she’s young. 

 

“You’re all right,” Katniss says softly, not to him. She offers her hand across the table, but the younger girl doesn’t take it. “I promise. It’s just my husband. He won’t hurt you.” 

 

It’s vestige of their alliance in the arena, a thousand years ago, maybe. Or else just shorthand from all the years they’ve spent together since. Katniss’s eyes flicker up to his, imploring, and he understands what she needs immediately. 

 

He nods. “I’m just going to grab something to eat, first. That okay?” 

Her smile is grateful. “Soup is on the stove, still,” she says. “Kept it warm for you.” 

 

He eats upstairs, in the room that serves as his art studio, at his sketching table. He doesn’t eat upstairs often -- dinner has been such a collaborative process with Katniss for as long as they’ve lived together. He’s already settled into the bed when the door creaks open and then shuts just as quietly. 

Katniss slips in beside him, letting a rush of cold air into the sheets as she pulls it back to join him in the bed. “She doesn’t trust men,” Katniss explains, as if their brief conversation earlier never stopped. “It’s not your fault.” 

“A friend of yours?” Peeta asks. 

Katniss blows out a sigh that makes Peeta shiver when it hits the back of his neck. “I found her by our cans,” she admits. 

 

Peeta’s next shiver has nothing to do with being cold as he remembers a different girl by a different set of cans. 

“And I’ve seen her around our garden before,” she continues. 

 

It’s quiet for a moment. 

 

“What’s her name?” 

“Magdalena,” Katniss answers. “She’s fifteen. Lives in the Community Home, but missed doors tonight. They’re not feeding her enough, anyway.” 

 

“Did she eat enough tonight, do you think?” Peeta asks. 

 

Katniss huffs out a laugh through her nose. “I won’t think she ate enough until she isn’t so small.” 

Of course. 

“She’s staying, then?” Peeta asks. 

“I invited her to,” Katniss says. “But I’m not sure she’ll stay through the night. I wouldn’t have.”   
. . . 

 

Katniss is right. They both shoot up from their sleep in the middle of the night to the sound of the front door closing. Peeta moves stiffly to reattach his prosthetic, and Katniss reaches over to put her hand on his arm and stop him. 

 

“No. It’s not safe, someone has to--” he starts, and Katniss tugs at his arm a little harder. 

 

“Peeta, no,” she says. “You’ll only terrify her.” 

 

“It’s freezing out there!” he protests. “I can’t just--” 

“She won’t ever come back if some strange man chases her at night,” Katniss says lowly. “Please.” 

“Then you go,” he insists. “It’s not safe for her out there. Please.” 

“We’ll leave the door unlocked,” Katniss says. “If she feels safe, she’ll come back.” 

Katniss doesn’t sound remotely convinced. 

 

“I don’t like this, Katniss,” he says. 

 

“Trust me.” 

 

Peeta notices, when he starts preparing breakfast, how a little is gone from so many of their containers, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither does Katniss, save to comment that it’s almost time to head for the grocer. 

. . . 

 

Magdelena is back during the worst snowfall of the season, the following year. Her lips are blue and her eyes are wide, cheeks hollow as she stares at Katniss, who assumed it was only Haymitch pounding at the door at this hour. 

 

“Oh,” Katniss breathes. “Come inside.”

 

“You said--” the girl shudders violently, and Katniss resists the urge to pull her into the warmth of the house herself. “If I needed anything--” 

“Come inside,” Katniss says again, and then calls over her shoulder. “Peeta? Will you put the kettle on, please?” 

She hears his moment of hesitation from the other room, where she left him buried under a pile of blankets. 

“Peeta,” she prompts. 

 

His groan, now, no doubt as he reattaches the prosthetic he took off hours ago. But he does get to his feet and head for the kitchen. Magdalena is staring. 

 

“Please. Come Inside,” Katniss insists, and offers her hand, palm up, to prove that she means no harm. Magdelena is shaking hard as Katniss guides her inside and closes the door tightly behind them. “How about I run you a bath?” she asks, resisting the urge to fuss at the girl’s hair, the way she would for one of her godchildren or -- 

She fights back the urge to think of Prim, as she does nearly every day. 

“Come with me. Do you remember where it is?” Katniss asks. 

Magdalena’s eyes dart around the house. Right. It’s huge, and it’s been nearly a year since she’s last seen her. 

“I’ll show you,” she says. “It’s all right. You’ll be safe here, until the storm ends,” she says. 

The younger girl accepts the clean towel Katniss offers her and starts to take off her clothes, spare and patchy to begin with but heavy with melted snow now, all the same. 

“Do you mind if I wash those?” Katniss checks, testing the water from the spout with her hand. “I’ll leave some pajamas by the door for you.” 

“Okay,” rasps the girl. 

“Now, it’s this handle to heat it up, this one to cool it off,” she says, leaving out some of the more confusing features of the guest room tub. “I didn’t want it to be too hot right away,” she tries explaining, but a glance at the younger girl’s face as she clutches the towel to her slight frame proves that she’s wasting time. “I’ll let you settle,” she says. “I’ll fix you something to eat. All right? Come out whenever you’re ready.” 

Magdalena nods shakily and Katniss tries to force herself to smile reassuringly, but it feels false even on her own lips. 

 

 

By the time she returns to the kitchen, her husband has pulled out nearly everything from the icebox. 

“Just toast,” she forces herself to say, though she feels the same urge to feed her. “Don’t want to shock her system,” she continues. “Toast, first. Maybe some eggs, if she holds it down.” 

He nods, very slowly, clearly still not positive whether or not his wife has gone completely insane. 

 

Magdalena appears an hour later, practically swimming in Katniss’s flannel pajamas, and murmurs an apology about having fallen asleep in the tub. Peeta shifts, as if to stand, but at Katniss’s glance, he holds his tongue. The girl is so slight -- too small, with a riot of dark curls plastered against her forehead and tied up at the back of her head. He reminds her so much of a younger version of his wife that he can’t stand it. 

 

“That’s fine,” says Katniss. “I won’t keep you up much longer, but I think we should get some food in you. Does that sound all right?” 

Magalena nods shakily. 

“Go ahead and take a seat,” she prompts. “We have tea for you.” 

“And toast,” Peeta murmurs, careful to keep his voice quiet, his posture non-threatening, as he pushes his chair back and rises to gather what he’s made. Magdalena is clearly aware of his movement, but she’s so curled into herself she doesn’t react at all. 

 

“Did you miss doors again?” Katniss prompts gently as Peeta approaches with the plate that’s been warming in the stove for the better part of the last hour. 

The girl swallows. “No.” 

Once the silence has stretched on long enough that he’s sure she doesn’t intend on elaborating, Peeta sets the plate and mug in front of her and says, “We didn’t have a chance to meet, last time. I’m Peeta -- Katniss’s husband. I--” 

“I know,” the girl says, and then bites her lower lip. “Everyone knows who you are.” 

A corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’m going to give you two some space,” he announces. “But, if you need me,” he tilts his head to indicate his study, upstairs. Katniss gives him a grateful nod and he lingers in the doorframe for a moment but disappears. 

Katniss has fed the girl four pieces of toast and two eggs before she speaks again. 

 

“I just-- you said if I needed anything . . .” 

“I did,” Katniss agrees when she trails off. “So what do you need, Magdalena?” 

“Even if I made a bad decision?”


	3. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts since before the most recent attack on our reproductive rights. 
> 
> Abortion rights are human rights. 
> 
> O

 

Madgalena’s clothes are still in the dryer, so she and Katniss sit stiffly in the office in their warm pajamas from the night before. If anything, the snowstorm outside has kicked up in the few hours of sleep that any of them managed to get last night. Peeta’s was even more fitful than Katniss’s, somehow. She knows because she counted him getting up and out of the bed a solid five times before she woke to find the mattress cold.   
  
He’s still cooking, downstairs. She doesn’t even know when he started, but as far as she can tell, he’s got a feast planned. She can’t begrudge him for it much. The younger girl held down the food they offered last night fine, and she’s sure her husband, considerate as he is, isn’t planning on making anything too rich.    
  
“Did you tell him--?” the younger girl croaks out as Katniss moves to dial her mother’s phone number. “I mean. He’ll figure it out eventually.”   
  
Katniss’s hand stalls over the keypad. “No,” she breathes, horrified. “No, of course I didn’t tell him.”   
  
Magdalena considers this for a moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s not like I’ll be able to keep it a secret much longer,” she continues, glancing down at her stomach. “I just thought -- maybe that’s why he’s cooking so much.”   
  
“No,” Katniss says, resisting the urge to put her hand on Magdalena’s leg, or arm, or try to comfort her somehow. “Absolutely not. Peeta is just cooking because he thinks you might be hungry.”   
  
The younger girl hesitates. “I am hungry,” she admits. 

 

 _I know_ , Katniss thinks, but doesn’t say. “That’s what he does,” Katniss continues. “He feeds people when they’re hungry. Smells good, right?”   
  
She nods meekly.   
  
“You can have as much as you want,” Katniss promises. “He always makes too much.”   
  
“We’ll have to tell him,” Magdalena says. “Right?”   
  
Katniss forces herself to keep smiling, hoping that it’s reassuring. “You never _have_ to tell him anything,” she says. “That’s one good thing about him -- he won’t press.”   
  
She doesn’t look like she exactly believes it. Katniss doesn’t blame her, but the idea of Magdalena being afraid of her husband doesn’t settle right.   
  
“He’s a good man,” Katniss says stupidly, struck by the urge to defend her husband. She’s not actually sure how much Magdalena knows about them, ten years after the war, but at one point, the entirety of their relationship had been public record. “All he’ll care about is whether or you’re safe.”   
  
Magdalena nods, tracing along a line in the plaid of her pajama pants wordlessly. Downstairs, there’s a distinctly metallic clanging noise. The mixing bowl falling into the sink, Katniss would guess, followed immediately by Peeta biting out a “ _Son of a-”._ At Magdalena’s flinch, Katniss swallows back the urge to defend him again.   
  
“I’m going to call my mother now, if you’re ready,” Katniss says. They went over all of her qualifications last night when Katniss first proposed this plan, and they didn’t seem particularly comforting to Magdalena, so she doesn’t repeat them. “She helped me before, when my cycle was late,” Katniss adds. “She’ll know what to do.”   
  
She dials the numbers in, ignoring the way her hand shakes, and listens while it rings, putting it on speaker and setting it back on the desk. It’s only a few seconds later when there’s an answering click. 

 

“Hello?” asks a smooth, feminine voice on the other end. The greeting sounds rehearsed. It must be the way she answers the phone whether or not she sees her daughters number on the screen. 

  
“Hey,” Katniss says. “It’s, um, me. Do you have a minute?”   
  
It’s quiet for a beat. She thinks that maybe it’s because her mother is surprised to hear from her without the call having been scheduled. She can think of only a handful of times that she’s spoken to her mother willingly in the last couple of years.   
  
“Katniss, hi,” her mother returns. “Wow, it’s so good to hear from you. Wait -- is everything all right?”   
  
Katniss glances at the teenager sitting beside her, hands writing in her lap.   
  
“Peeta and I are fine,” she answers carefully. “You’re still in women’s health, right?” 

  
A breathy laugh from her mother. “That’s one of the departments I oversee, yes,” she answers carefully. “Why? Are you--?”   
  
“I’m fine,” Katniss interrupts. Before the silence can hang too long, she continues. “I’m here with a friend of mine, though. She needs someone she can talk to, about her options. I told her you could help.” 

  
“Her options?” the doctor echoes. “Well, you know I usually prefer to do consultations in person,” she begins. “And I would be remiss if I didn’t recommend Naomi Pearson. She’s one of the best healers I have ever--”   
  
“Mom,” Katniss presses, though the word isn’t one she uses often. “Come on. You know you have better resources than the Pearsons,” she says. “And my friend, she’s just a--”   
  
Katniss cuts herself off just shy of saying something true: Magdalena is just a kid. She would have hated hearing it at that age, no matter how true it was.   
  
“She’s sixteen,” Katniss amends.   
  
“Oh,” comes softly from the other end of the line. And then, softer than before, in a voice Katniss recognizes from when her mother ran a little practice out of their home, she continues. “And she’s here now, with you?”   
  
Magdalena nods, and then seems to remember that the other woman can’t see her. “Yes. Hi,” she says. 

 

“Hello. What’s your name, sweetheart?”    
  


“Magdalena.” 

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Magdalena. I’m Doctor Walsh.” 

 

Even though it’s been years, Katniss has to stifle the childish urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s new last name. She doesn’t dislike the husband she chose -- mostly because she doesn’t see him often enough to really have an opinion -- but she told Peeta long before they had their toasting that she would be keeping the last name her father and sister had. He expected no different. Duncan Walsh, however, had different ideas.   
  
“I’m Katniss’s mother,” she continues. “I’m a director at the training hospital out in District Eleven. Can you tell me a little bit about what’s wrong?” 

  
Magdalena releases her lower lip, tinted red with blood from being chewed to bits, and says, “I’m pregnant.”   
  
“And do you know how long it’s been since your last cycle? Even just an estimation would--”   
  
“Three months,” she interrupts. 

  
“Three months,” repeats Katniss’s mother, in the tone she uses when she’s taking notes. “All right. So, still fairly early. Next question, do you _want_ to be pregnant?”   
  
Katniss can’t help but to steal a glance at Magdalena at this. Her big, brown eyes well with tears, and her mouth opens and closes twice, three times, before she finally croaks out, 

 

“No.” 

 

“That’s okay,” says Katniss’s mother in an almost musical, soothing voice. It’s the type of reassurance that Katniss was never given, when she needed it. The type of reassurance she’s almost blindingly relieved to hear aimed at the terrified teenage girl in her armchair, jealousy aside. “It’s okay,” she repeats. “Thank you for being honest with me.”   
  
Magdalena bobs her head again -- a nervous habit, Katniss thinks.   
  
“So, at this stage, there are actually a couple of options,” Katniss’s mother begins gently. “Like I said, Naomi Pearson is a hell of a doctor. But honestly at your age, if it’s at all possible, I would suggest you head for one of the hospitals. You could come to the one I work at in District Eleven, of course, or out in Four--” she cuts herself off and addresses her daughter instead. “Katniss, do you think you might be able to help her--?”   
  
“Anywhere she needs to go,” Katniss says without hesitating, and glances over to find Magdalena staring hard at the floor. “Obviously.”   
  
“All right,” says her mother. “You shouldn’t need a referral, but if you should, I can send over some paperwork laying out what we’ve already discussed. Of course, things do need to move quickly at this stage. I don’t think they should be booked too far out in advance, but -- Kantiss, if you can tell me when the train tickets you book are, I can help line something up.”   
  


. . . 

 

“I’ll book the tickets after breakfast. There must be at least something to eat down there,” Katniss says as they head for the door. It’s an attempt at levity, though not one she’s expecting to have go over any better than it does. All she gets is a nod from the younger girl. “Peeta loves cooking breakfast,” she adds. “So you can eat as much as you want, all right?” 

 

Magdalena bites her bottom lip again, and Katniss worries that maybe she’s made a mistake.   
  
“Or maybe I should bring a plate to your room?” she offers. “If you’d like to be alone.”   
  
Magdalena hesitates, but then shakes her head. “Would -- will you tell him?” she asks. “About me getting-- being--” she tilts her head down towards her stomach.   
  
Katniss swallows. “Yes,” she says. “Yeah. All right. But he doesn’t have to know right away, though, if you aren’t ready,” Katniss reminds her. “I mean, he’ll wonder why he’s coming with us to Four. But the good thing about Peeta is--” she stops herself from saying that she’s wrong, and there are far more, and instead just smiles tightly and says, “He won’t push you.”   
  
Magdalena’s eyes go all wide. “Us?” she croaks. “You’re coming with me?”   
  
Katniss touches the younger girl’s arm, gauging her reaction to the affection. “I’m certainly not sending you alone,” she says. “And Peeta won’t pass up the chance to get out of this snow. Does that sound okay to you?”   
  
She leaves out the part where she and Peeta don’t travel without each other. Neither of them is particularly keen on the idea of being separated. Thankfully, Magdalena gives a hesitant nod and spares her from having to explain any further.   
  
“Tell him,” she croaks. “I don’t want to be around for it.”   
  
“Anything you need,” Katniss says.  
  
  
Katniss was right. Peeta has made a feast. Magdalena glances over at her, cautiously amused, when they get to the kitchen and see all the food Peeta has laid out. The table is so crowded with dishes it’s a wonder he squeezed plates in for them -- in the center of it is a cast iron skillet full to almost overflow with bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs. There’s more around it -- though it’s more than the two of them would usually eat for breakfast in the better part of a week. Toast and orange juice and fruit.   
  
“Do you think you cooked enough?” teases Katniss.   
  
Peeta looks contrite, though only for a moment. “I forgot the granola,” he admits, and a surprised laugh tears from Magdalena’s throat, as if she’s only just realized  how earnest he is. He’s red, and looks a little frazzled, still, but he does smile at the sound. “Good morning, Magdalena,” he says.   
  
She shuffles her feet as she returns his greeting. 

 

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says. 

 

“I’m always hungry,” she murmurs. Katniss laughs on an exhale, nervous because she knows so intimately what that’s like. Peeta can’t bring himself to return it.   
  
“Hopefully you got enough sleep last night,” Peeta says. “I didn’t mean to wake you both up too early.”   
  
“Peeta was a baker, a lifetime ago,” Katniss explains, as if the young girl might not know. “He kept the hours.”   
  
“You didn’t wake me up,” she says, and then seems to think twice. “I was up anyway.”  
  
“Well,” Katniss says. “We’ll have to try to get you to bed earlier tonight to make up for it then, yes?”   
  
Magdalena nods. 

 

“I’m going to town this afternoon to see if I can find some clothing that might fit you better,” Katniss continues. “You’re welcome to come with me if you’d like,” she says, and glances over just in time to catch her in a yawn. “Or stay home and take a nap.”  
  
The younger girl flushes, and Katniss smiles.   
  
“Stay home and take a nap,” she affirms. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”   
  


. . .  

  
She and Peeta brave the snow together, both bundled in scarves and hats and mittens that Katniss knit. Almost as long as she’s been making things, it’s been a tradition for the first of whatever new thing she’s made to find its way onto Peeta’s dresser, or the desk in his art room, or anywhere else she could think of where it might surprise him and make him smile. Her mittens, as a result, are just slightly too big for her hands -- she knit them for Peeta before she learned how to gauge them. That’s easy enough to forget about, though, with Peeta holding onto her as they wind their way into town. 

 

“Pregnant?” echoes Peeta, barely even breathing the word out. “But she’s so young.”   
  
Yes, Katniss is glad she’s agreed to do this herself. She’s happy to spare her this discomfort, even if it is minimal. “She signed up to be a surrogate,” Katniss explains. “For some Capitol couple. They told her they’d pay for everything. Housing and food and all, until the kid was born. They--”   
  
He mutters something she doesn’t catch, body stiffening and then working hard to relax. “So then why is she so fucking hungry?”   
  
The anger in his voice is palpable. Katniss tries to work on not letting it affect her as she continues the story, but it doesn’t work.   
  
“Because they backed out,” she says as they round a corner. “And she lost her bed at the Community Home when she was in Three for one those fancy ultrasounds. The agency never helped her find a place before, and now they don’t have to.”  
  
He curses under his breath. “You’re fucking kidding,” he says. “Community Home wouldn’t even let her in when it started storming?” 

 

“There’s a waiting list,” Katniss says, not able to keep the bitterness from her voice.     
  


“And who the fuck let a fifteen year old sign up for that, anyway? She’s not old enough to--”   
  
“Sixteen, now,” Katniss corrects, though hoarsely. It’s no better, her being sixteen. But Magdalena made sure to mention this, when she was trying to justify the decision she had to make. As if she thought Katniss was angry at her, and not at the situation that pushed her towards this. “And she’s scared enough already, so you’d better get all this out of your system now.”   
  
Peeta sighs, some of the fight leaching out of him. “You’re right,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be calmer. Will she actually stay with us, do you think?” Peeta asks. “Once the, uh, everything is taken care of?”   
  
Katniss hesitates. “Can’t be sure,” she admits. “But she asked me to be the one to tell you, and didn’t want to be around for your reaction. Which I would think shouldn’t matter if she doesn’t plan on coming home with us, right?”   
  
He looks unconvinced, which is about how Katniss feels.   
  
“Even if she just comes in every few months when she’s hungry,” Katniss says, though it’s a weak compromise even to her own ears. “It’s better than nothing.”   
  
“Better than nothing,” he mutters. “Yeah. I guess.”   
  
“We get to buy her a coat, at least,” Katniss says, tilting her head, trying to beg him to be the optimist, because she can’t. “And when we give to her, you’re going to smile and you’re not going to have that look on your face.”   
  
“What look?” he asks.   
  
“The one you used to give me when you thought I would run away and starve to death if you left me to my own devices.”   
  
He sinks into himself some, at this, and she sighs, kissing him on what little of his cheek is exposed to the cold air, straight through her scarf.   
  
“Don’t freak her out,” she warns. “I won’t allow it.” 


End file.
